Grubtrotters

It was girls night out at the new Father’s Office at the Helms Bakery Building in Culver City earlier this week. The second incarnation of this insanely trendy Santa Monica-born gastropub opened a month ago to massive hype and lines worthy of holidays at Disneyland. We figured some of the initial frenzy had probably died down by now, and, fortunately, we were right. My friends Janine and Kerith showed up at 6 p.m., and even though the place was buzzing, we had no trouble getting a table. What a refreshing change from the inaugural experience Victor and I had at the phone-booth-sized Father’s Office in Santa Monica. There we had to shovel in our burgers and beer standing up on one foot while using the other to kick away competitors. The Culver City space is much larger, with indoor and sidewalk seating, although the same rules apply. You order everything at the bar and take a plastic number back to your table to wait for delivery. No substitutions. No whining.

No reason to whine, really. The food is hearty and hand-licking delicious. All three of us ordered the burger. Of course. You have to get the burger. It’s legendary in size, spilling out of the bun, juicier than any Juicy Couture sweats and decadently dressed with sweet carmelized onions, bacon, Gruyere and Maytag blue cheese and arugula. My favorite part? No ketchup anywhere. I abhor ketchup. Always have. I had no trouble devouring the entire burger. And when Kerith filled up and sent the second half of hers away, I flagged down the server and snatched it back. I knew Victor would be pleased. He and I split the leftovers later.

FO’s side dishes get less attention, but man, oh man, were those Spanish mushrooms garlicky and good. Even the white anchovies were reminiscent of the ones we ate regularly on our honeymoon in Italy last September. After examining the impressive wall of beer, I washed all the pub grub down with a spicy, hoppy and fruity beer called the Russian River Brewing Damnation. Damn, was I happy. Sometimes you should believe the hype.

Father’s Office, 3229 Helms Ave., Los Angeles, 310-815-9820

In the spirit of the presidential race — and of course the 21st Amendment — we offer signature cocktails for the candidate of your choice. These concoctions are courtesy of Grubtrotters subscriber Alicia Knight:

Obama Bomb
2 Parts Blavod Vodka
1 Part Red Bull
1 Part Cranberry Juice

Fill a highball glass with crushed ice and pour in cranberry and Red Bull. Float Blavod Vodka on top. Garnish with a green apple fan.

Alicia’s inspiration: “The Obama Bomb is a take-off on the trendy high-end vodka and Red Bull favored by hipsters. The Blavod vodka is actually a black vodka with suitably high price points. Floated on top of the red part of drink, it looks very edgy. The cranberry juice helps cut the medicinal sourness of the Red Bull and refers to Ted Kennedy’s Massachusetts, where cranberries are widely grown. The green apple could bring the green into cocktail’s color theme of red, black and green after the Pan-African flag, or it could reference Obama’s noted inexperience, and if it’s a Granny Smith apple, could reference his granny.”

Clinton Cocktail
2 Parts Kentucky Bourbon
1 Part Triple Sec
2 Parts Florida Orange Juice
Dash of Bitters

Combine all ingredients in ice-filled shaker. Shake well.
Pour into old-fashioned glass that is half-filled with ice. Garnish with a Michigan maraschino cherry.

Alicia’s inspiration: “The Clinton Cocktail is a take-off on a classic that was a favorite of liberated women back in the 20s (in Europe) and 30s (in the U.S.) known as the Sidecar, which is typically brandy, orange liqueur (Cointreau) and citrus such as lemon juice. I made Hillary’s cocktail more like a current women’s favorite, Whiskey Sour, so I could use Kentucky Bourbon and orange juice for the sour. The drink can also be made with Crown Royal, but Pennsylvania’s primary has already happened. I substituted Triple Sec for the Cointreau because the working class can’t afford the high-priced Cointreau. And I added the dash of bitters because I like my sours made with bitters and well, it was apropos.”

McCain Straight Shooter
1 Part Patron Reposada
1 Part Kahlua
1 Part Barcardi 151

Layer liquors in order in a shot glass, floating the Bacardi 151 on top. Light the 151. Drink while flaming, if you dare.

Alicia’s inspiration: “This flaming shooter is an homage to the jet jocks (Naval aviators) like McCain who fly tough, talk tough and drink tough. The rum, because it’s a Navy drink. The tequila and Kahlua from Mexico, which shares a border with McCain’s state of Arizona. A strong drink that doesn’t mess around in the process of messing you up. A variation on the F***ked Up Motherf***er, which is 151 and Jaegermeister, flamed. I just don’t like the taste of Jaeg.”

Bottoms up. We’re guessing this wouldn’t have worked out as well if Romney were still in the race.

LA Times Food Critic S. Irene Virbila rips into Nobu Los Angeles for being more scene than substance. In her weekly review she disses the restaurant for its lack of creativity and for sub-par ingredients.

Some of the raw seafood is first-rate, some just a notch above mediocre. But the rice is gummy, and the nori sash around the sushi is not the best quality. Plus you don’t even get freshly grated wasabi. Maybe omakase is the way to go. Maybe that’s where his chef — Ricardo Sauri from Nobu Miami — breaks out his best stuff. Then again, maybe not.

…We’re already into the third course of our omakase, and still not a bite of carbohydrates. A Japanese restaurant where you don’t necessarily get rice? I’m thinking: This is perfect model food. Pretty to look at, lean, bites like bonbons, fish bonbons. And there you have it.

SIV seems most bothered by Nobu’s “commercialism and repetition,” especially his use of the same sauces he bottles and sells, even in omakase dishes. As for the aforementioned scene, she thinks the blandness of the food and crowd might be related.

The menu offers few surprises, but maybe that’s the point. The bicoastal or bicontinental beautiful people want their comfort food wherever they are. The rest of us come to see what they’re eating or what they’re wearing.

The one positive note for Nobu Matsuhisa is a nice plug for his Beverly Hills restaurant, also a favorite of ours here at Grubtrotters.

What’s missing is the unpredictability and sheer fantasy of the specials at his first restaurant, Matsuhisa, in Beverly Hills — that blackboard scribbled with intricate dishes and combinations of ingredients that the “Top Model”-material servers haul around from table to table. (That restaurant is still open.)